She came to him one day in a state of some agitation. She had been riding through the streets of London when the crowd had stopped her carriage and shouted insults at her.

"They call me Maypole," she said.

"There's nothing new in that," replied George. "It's the name they gave you when they first saw you."

For once Ermengarda could not be placated; her face under her red wig was sweating with indignation.

"l look from the window and I spoke to them in English," she explained. "I said this: 'Good pipple, why you abuse us? We come for all your goots.' And what do you think they shouted at me? *Yes, damn you,' they cried, 'And for all our chattels too.'"

When George understood the meaning of this he laughed sardonically. They were a garrulous lot, his new subjects. They seemed in love with words; no wonder the lampooners were so effective.

He told Ermengarda that she must not take the matter to heart.

"For," he said gloomily, "we are here, and here we must try to stay."

"And you think they will not send us back to Hanover?" she asked, little lights of fear shooting up in her eyes. If they returned to Hanover what would happen to her plans for amassing future wealth. England was a great milch cow and her dear George Lewis, whom she had truly loved for so long that she was as a wife to him, would help her to the milking.

"I think some may try," said George, "but they won't succeed."

"No, we must stop them. It could never be that they should turn you out. Silly people. Do they not know you come for their good."

"And their chattels?" added George with a rare touch of humour.

The King was thoughtful while being dressed by the only two servants whom he allowed into his bedchamber. This in itself was a complete disregard of royal etiquette for the ceremony of dressing the King had been one of the most important in the household and those courtiers who took part in it consequently of high standing. And that these two servants should be Turks was yet another insult to English custom.

Mustapha and Mahomet might be a pair of rogues, but they were no more avaricious than the fine ladies and gentlemen who surrounded him. He doubted they had ever learned the art of peculation as thoroughly as the great Duke of Marlborough a man whom George would never trust. Oh, he was friendly enough now and he had his uses, but there was a man who could turn his coat with more rapidity than most. George had heard that even while he accepted office with him he was in secret communication with James Stuart, just in case the Jacobites should succeed in bringing him back.

Life was very different here from in Hanover. There it had been far less complicated. There, although he had been Elector of a small community he had received more respect than he did as King of this great country. The Germans were by nature more disciplined than the English. He wished he were back.

These people had no respect for anyone. Only recently on the occasion of his birthday he had, because he had been told it was the custom, provided his Guards with new clothing. He was not a man who cared to waste money and naturally he had given the commission to the company which had given the cheapest estimate. It seemed that the shirts were much coarser than those previously supplied and as a result the Guards had marched through the City throwing off their jackets to show the quality of what the lampooners were soon calling "Hanoverian shirts".

That brought Marlborough to the King. One could not, said the Duke, afford to upset the soldiery. It was possible that a small affair like the cheap shirts could be the very spark to set off a mutiny.

Marlborough, George reflected cynically, must be of the opinion that the House of Hanover was in a stronger position than that of Stuart for he immediately ordered a double supply of shirts and jackets of the very best quality and added to it an extra donation of beer.

Such incidents made the King aware of the insecurity of his position.

Then again he enjoyed walking but he had no desire to be followed by a crowd who watched him and laughed and talked about him in a language he could not understand.

St. James's Park was beautiful but, in his opinion, spoilt by the people who crowded there and used it as their own. It belonged to the King. Why, he wanted to know, should not the King reserve it for his own special use?

He had talked of this to his Secretary of State, Lord Towns-end, who had taken over that office on the dismissal of Bolingbroke, because the latter being a Jacobite naturally could not retain his position when George came to England.

"I want to know," George had said, "how much it would cost to shut up St. James's Park and keep it for my private use."

Townsend had hesitated only for a second and then replied; "It would cost you three crowns. Sire."

A witty remark such as these English loved—but very much to the point this one. And it brought home to him yet once more how very precariously he sat on the throne of England.

Mahomet was placing his wig on his head, and George looked at the reflection of the dark face close to that with the heavy sullen jaw which was his own.

Bolingbroke! he thought. There was a man who could make trouble. And it was not long ago that he had fled to France.

He was an ambitious man, that Bolingbroke; in the last reign he had aspired to lead the government. He had quarrelled with Harley and helped by that woman of devious character. Lady Masham, might have succeeded very well indeed if Anne had not died, or if he had been able to bring James Stuart to England. He was too confirmed a Jacobite to change coats with sufficient alacrity and naturally he was dismissed—but dismissal was not all he had to fear. Walpole had wanted to impeach him and impeached he would have been had he not taken action. He had known this so he had artfully assumed an indifference he was far from feeling.

"I shall devote myself to literature," he had declared; and had gone to the opera, where he had greeted all his friends and generally called attention to himself by making appointments to see them in the following weeks. But when he left the opera he had gone to his house, put on a large black wig, dressed himself as a valet and made for Dover; and once there he crossed to France.

It was obvious to whom he was now offering his services.

The throne was very shaky.

Well, thought George, if I lose it, I shall go back to Hanover.

Herrenhausen would be very beautiful now; it would be good to smell the sausages and sauerkraut cooking in the old kitchens of the Leine Schloss.

And yet...

Was he beginning to have a little affection for this adopted country? Scarcely affection. But he must think of the generation to come—the future Kings and Queens of England.

Shortly afterwards on a bright September day Lord Towns-end and the Duke of Marlborough called on the King.

Prince James Francis Edward Stuart had landed in Scotland and had been welcomed there as King James III of England Scotland and Ireland.

Rebellion

Alarm spread through the capital. Civil war seemed imminent. There was no longer secret drinking in the cafes. The Jacobites were singing their songs in the open; in every tavern they were drinking their toasts to the King who would soon no longer be the King over the water but in his rightful place; in the streets fighting constantly broke out between Catholics and Protestants.

"Down with the Pretender! " cried the Protestants.

"Damn George!" responded the Jacobites. "Send the German back to Hanover."

News from Scotland filtered through, but none could be sure how much was rumour, how much was truth. James had already been crowned at Scone. James had not yet crossed the sea. James came with arms and men supplied by the French. James came with nothing but a few miserable followers.

Ormonde and Bolingbroke who had both fled from England on the accession of George were fighting to restore the fortunes of James—and their own. Toasts were drunk to "Job"—the combined initials of James and these two men. There was tension and rising excitement everywhere.

None was calmer than the King. Ermengarda wanted to go back to Hanover, but George just waved her aside. It was only in moments of panic that she would have dared to advise.

The Prince of Wales was in despair. He came to his wife and she had never seen him so perturbed.

"My father is von fool," he lamented. "These pipple do not him vant."

"It is not important for the pipple to him vant so much as it is for him to stay."

"The English pipple will have vat they vant and they vant this Stuart. There are riots in the Park this day. I vas nearby. I heard them shout: 'Damn George I' They cheer for James."

"It is von mob," replied Caroline scornfully.

"And two mob ... and three mob. All over London there are these mob."

"Ve vill stand strong."

"And be sent back to Hanover?"

"God forbid."

"Ah, ve are of von mind, my Caroline. I fear ... I fear very much."

"Let us take a valk. Let us valk in the Mall. Let us show this pipple that ve love them."

"And you think that vill make them love us?"

"I am sure of this," replied Caroline.

So he walked with her in the Park which his father had wanted to make private; and they chatted together and with their attendants; they showed no fear; they only expressed their affection towards the English people.

"I vould rather on a dunghill live," declared Caroline, "than go back to Hanover."

Even as she spoke the shouts of a Jacobite mob could be heard in the distance; but Caroline, smiling at her husband made no sign that she heard.

"At least," said the spectators, "these Germans have courage."

Caroline knew she was right to have suggested the walk in public.

As they returned to their rooms George Augustus was flushed and happy.

"It vas good this idea of mine ... to show ourselves, eh?" Caroline was about to protest that the idea had been hers. She stopped herself in time and nodded. "An excellent idea," she agreed.

From her maids of honour Caroline learned what was going on in the streets outside the Palace. They were uneasy many of them, wondering, she knew, whether the end of the Hanoverian reign was in sight. Girls like Molly Lepel and Mary Bellenden chatted freely and in the highest of spirits. Caroline made no attempt to restrain them for she realized the importance of learning all she could.

"The Chevalier de St. George is very handsome I" sighed Mary Bellenden. "At least so IVe heard."

"A trifle melancholy, I believe," whispered her companion.

"But women love him."

"They love all Stuarts. ..."

"Different from..."

Suppressed laughter. Yes, different from the Guelphs, thought Caroline, who though none the less fond of women managed to be graceless in their manners towards them.

She called to the girls. "You speak of the Pretender," she said.

They admitted it, just a little defiantly, she thought. How many of those who now called themselves her friends, wondered Caroline, would support the Stuart if he were successful.

"I think of the battle of Oudenarde," she said.

"Oudenarde, Your Highness?"

"Yes. At this battle the Prince my husband is on the side of the English. The Pretender he fights for the French."

The girls did not answer.

"It is forgotten, you think?" asked Caroline. "I do not think so. The English are the most grateful pipples in the vorld. They do not forget their friends, I think."

"No, Your Highness," murmured Molly. "They don't forget these things."

Caroline nodded: and the girls noticed later how often she introduced Oudenarde into the conversation and the honours the Prince had won there. Others began remembering Oudenarde; and it was talked of at Court. And as what was discussed at Court spread to the streets it was soon remembered throughout the City how bravely the Prince had fought for the English at Oudenarde and that the man who now desired to be their King had fought against them.

During the vital months that followed luck proved to be on the side of the Hanoverians.

Bolingbroke, exiled from England, and therefore joining with the Stuart cause, was appalled by the character of the man who would set out to capture a kingdom. There was no fire in him; he was a pessimist through and through; and although he had made elaborate plans, first for the capture of Scotland and then that of England, his natural melancholy always overcame his belief in his success.